


Of Ghosts and Honest Men

by miasmatrix



Series: Honest Men [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Ghosts, Implied Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 04:24:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miasmatrix/pseuds/miasmatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"What's your percentage?" Holmes asked.</em><br/>"Sherlock", John warned.<br/>"Excuse me?"<br/>"Your Neandertal percentage."<br/>"Sherlock!"</p><p> <br/>A widow finds herself haunted by visitations, and tries to convince the world's greatest detective and his blogger to help her. But they're not a couple. Nope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Ghosts and Honest Men

I met Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson almost a year after my husband's death. Holmes had been recommended to me by a friend at the club, or rather, my friend's husband, as women still weren't allowed at certain clubs. Yes, this was 21th century London. I found that very curious, but then, I found Great Britain curious, being German. I'd come here often, on holidays, on business trips. But still, many things were - beyond me.

So I met Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson in a café in Kensington, where I stayed at the Hilton. Not knowing what to expect, and when to expect them, I had ordered coffee and a sticky pastry and got up when the two arrived. Holmes had been described to me, and there was no mistaking him, the angular, high-cheekboned face, a shock of dark curls, the long coat, the inevitable scarf - and that sneer. Dr. Watson was easily overlooked, and not only because his size, but also because he had this unassuming way of staying in Holmes' shadow, peering out of Holmes' presence like a fox darting in between a wolf's legs. Holmes ignored the hand I offered, and I realized I had made a mistake, remembering women weren't greeted that way here, but then he dropped into one of the armchairs without a word or gesture of greeting at all. Thankfully, Dr. Watson saved me from more indignation and shook my hand amiably enough. "Dr. Segen, I presume. Nice to meet you. John Watson. John."  
"Anne, please. Nice to meet you, too. I'm glad you made it. Do you care for some coffee? Tea? Pastries?"

John settled down and studied the menu, while Holmes studied me. Even though I had been told to expect that, it was disconcerting. I felt exposed, and I wondered if this is how my specimens at the lab felt. But then, plants wouldn't care, would they. The silence stretched far, far into awkwardness, and I realized my gaze had become stuck on Holmes' hands. He hadn't taken off his gloves. John ordered tea and pastries for both of them.

"What's your percentage?" asked Holmes, and I was surprised by how deep his voice was. He wasn't taller than I, and I probably exceeded him in muscle mass and width, but he seemed larger. Larger than life, is how I've heard him described, and it fit.  
"Sherlock", John warned.  
"Excuse me?"  
"Your Neandertal percentage."  
"Sherlock!"  
"John, please. It's obvious. Dr. Segen, you're tall, but it's not your legs, those are rather short, whereas your torso is unusually long, which is why you chose a skirt to wear today, a dress wouldn't fit. Your head is very long, clearly a size 60 or even 62. You are an ice age survivor, made to endure the cold. Both your hips and shoulders are wide, your deltoids, perfectly visible in that outfit, speak of great strength in your upper body, unusual strength for a woman. But you don't work out, do you. No, that would only increase muscle mass. You run, as is perfectly obvious from your lower legs, hoping to achieve a more slender, conventionally attractive build, but, I'm afraid, failing. Then, your hands. Short fingers, but powerful, as John can certainly attest to, seeing how he winced when he shook your hand-"  
"Sherlock! Don't! Don't insult our client."  
"Am I insulting you, Doctor? Frankly, I don't think so. You make absolutely no effort to hide your phenotype, and, judging from your career choice, I'd say you are actually rather proud of it. Am I right?"  
I had to smile. Though I specialize in ice age relic flora, I nurse a soft spot for ice age fauna, and I was indeed proud of my Neandertal heritage. "Four point eight percent", I boasted. Holmes grinned, and so did I. John looked back and forth between both of us, exasperated.

The tea arrived, saving John the apologies he no doubt wanted to make. Holmes didn't touch his, but John attacked his pastry with a vengeance.  
"And now, Dr. Segen, tell me why you think you need us", Holmes said, leaning forward, fingers stapled underneath his chin, something I found vaguely menacing. John, looking up from his pastry, shot him a warning glance. I took a deep breath.

"Mr. Holmes, first I'd like to thank you for your time. Your coming here means a lot to me."  
One long hand swept across the table, the universal gesture of "Cut the crap and carry on."  
"Okay. So. You probably heard my husband died last year. That was a terrible, terrible blow. He was -"  
That gesture again. "Sherlock!", John barked at him, "Will you show some respect!"  
"Clearly, Dr. Segen's husband is no longer part of the problem, John. I'm just trying to speed things up."  
John looked stricken. "I'm so, so sorry, Anne. I apologize. Actually", he said and jabbed Holmes in the ribs, "I apologize in advance for all the horrible things he's going to say."  
"That's okay", I managed, though really, it wasn't. Talking about Jan's death always brought me to the brink of an abyss too deep to have a staring contest with, and I didn't think I could deal with hostility today. "I came here looking for help, but I realize I might have been mistaken." God, I felt tears well up, and I knew if I allowed that to happen, I'd spend the rest of the afternoon sobbing in this café's restroom.  
"I'm so sorry", John repeated.  
"You've moved on", Holmes said. "It cost you terribly, and you feel guilty about it. That's why you still wear one black item and will continue to do so until you master the guilt. You're not wearing his ring, but only because you never wore one. Anyone could see you were married, from your body language and the way you always kept close to one another, and so you never saw the need to get rings. You considered yourself married even long after his death. You carry yourself tall and proud, but with effort, meaning it still costs you, but you manage." He paused, cocked his head, and his eyes went softer. "You're not going to cry. Now. Tell me about the incident."

I told them about the day I came home and found Jan's pictures off the wall, all of them lying on the ground. The little altar I'd kept to remember him (even though I didn't need to, I thought about him every day) had been swept clear of everything. The vase lay shattered on the floor, flowers strewn. Even the candle had cracked. Things had moved without my knowing, had fallen down or simply vanished, and I felt watched, the entire time.  
"And no sign of an intruder", Holmes concluded.  
"None."  
"Well", he said and stood, "That is a case for the local police then. Or, maybe, it's time to change your medication and see a better therapist. It was very nice to meet you. I shall follow your publications on ePub."  
"And then there's the letter", I said, desperately, not wanting them to leave. "He wrote a letter."  
"Who."  
"My husband. I found his letter on the dining table. Last week. I think - I think he might not be dead after all." Turns out Holmes had been wrong about one thing: I did cry, and I couldn't stop. John scooted over and dragged me into an embrace that was intensely awkward - he was a full head shorter, and here I was, bowing down and sobbing into the sweater of a man I hadn't even known half an hour ago, while he patted my back as one would a horribly overgrown toddler, repeating: "There, there."  
When I regained any semblance of sanity, Holmes was gone.  
"He does that", John said.

 

Back in Germany, I barely had the time to unpack and do the laundry before the door bell rang. Though the city is only half an hour's drive away, I live in a big house in an overgrown orchard, in a very rural area, and I like it that way. Nothing ever happens here. Apart from the things that did happen here lately. That's why the door bell scared me half out of my wits, and I stood there, frozen, until it rang a second time. Do you know the feeling of being stuck in a nightmare? The sensation of swimming, floating towards something you know will be absolutely horrifying? That's how I felt when I went to open the door.  
What I was met with, though, were John's kind brown-green eyes, and a rush of coat-tails and hair as Holmes pushed past me without a word.  
"I'm sorry", John said.

"Nice home you have here", John commented as I made tea, digging for the pack of Earl Grey I had brought back from London. "Do you play?" he asked, gesturing towards the piano. Holmes teleported himself from room to room and rummaged around in my belongings with a familiarity I've only ever seen in pets before.  
"She does, she likes Bach, but also plays movie soundtracks, as is obvious from the sheets on the instrument. Pay more attention."  
"It's called 'making conversation', Sherlock."  
"Oh", Holmes said. "This is odd."  
"What is it?" John stepped over to Holmes, and again, I saw how he seemed to step into the other man's presence, with absolutely no regard for personal space. Something Jan and I had done. I swallowed hard at the memory.  
"You built these", he said, pointing at the Lego helicopter and truck I try to keep hidden from prying eyes.  
"I did, yes. How is that odd?"  
"Nothing at all. The odd thing is that you keep them hidden. You think it's not suitable. Not a womanly pastime. I'd guess you never were much for crocheting, were you. But then, you're not a womanly woman."  
"Sherlock."  
"Does that insult you?"  
I had to think about it for a moment. "No. No, it doesn't."  
"Would you agree that gender boundaries are fluent anyway, and not as ingrained as we've been told they are?"  
"I would agree, yes", I said, wondering what that had to do with my case, and then noticed John blushing, cringing, looking up at Holmes pleadingly. Holmes returned the look with a smirk.  
"Well, then", Holmes said lightly, "I've seen enough. Breakfast tomorrow?" Without waiting for a response, he waltzed out the door, leaving John to trail behind with a reflexive "Sorry about that" when he dragged the door shut behind him.

That night, I had another visitation. It always starts the same. The sound of his car. Then footsteps on the path through the orchard, heard clearly through the still of the night. His boots on the steps to our home, clomping once or twice to get rid of mud or snow. Then nothing for a while. Then a rustling downstairs, while I lay upstairs and tried to hold my breath, to not be there... Frozen in fright. Very unlike me, but then, at night, things are different. A sigh downstairs. I knew that if I'd muster the courage to go downstairs, I'd find nothing. Nothing at all. Curled up in a corner of the bed, eyes on the dark door frame, I lay awake for a long time, and I don't know how I fell asleep.

This time, the door bell didn't scare me that much. Holmes presented a bag of rolls and pastry with a smile and rushed past me, dropping the bag on the dining table. While Holmes searched the house like a greyhound on speed, John helped me set the table.  
"Why didn't you tell me you had another visitor last night", Holmes said accusingly, suddenly hovering behind me, almost making me drop the tea cups.  
"I - I didn't think there'd be physical evidence."  
"Well, but that would mean we're dealing with a ghost, when we're clearly not", Holmes smirked, as always, far ahead of anyone else.  
"We're not?"  
"Obviously, John, because ghosts don't exist!"  
"Oh, really."  
"Yes, really. I'm sorry, Dr. Segen, Dr. Watson is a bit under the weather today. The hotel room wasn't to his liking."  
"Sherlock, not now", John warned.  
"As a biologist, Dr. Segen", Holmes started, ignoring John's flustered "Don't" with the ease of long practice, "Do you think there's anything unnatural about us sharing a bed?"  
"Unnatural? No. I've had to share beds with female colleagues on conferences, during grad school. Wait - Are you asking me if it offends me that you're a couple? Not at all. As you know, Germany is a very liberal country."  
John studied my niece's paintings on the fridge with an interest not usually offered to the works of a five year old, and sang softly "We're not."  
"There, John. You heard it. Nothing unnatural about it."  
"I didn't say it was unnatural, Sherlock. I said it's unnecessary and uncomfortable."  
"But only because you didn't want to -"  
"Shall we have coffee?" I interrupted, increasingly desperate.  
"Yes, that'd be very nice", said John.  
"No, thanks", said Holmes.

"He's not always like that", John claimed while he bit into a roll. "Well. He is. He's trying to quit smoking at the moment. That always makes him cranky."  
"That's okay. I'm glad you're here to help."  
"You're very brave."  
"No, I'm just stubborn. After Jan died..."  
"No, well, I guess that too. But I meant, dealing with us. That's very brave."  
"Oh, but I quite like him. I'm a biologist, John. I revel in anomalies."  
At that, John threw his head back and laughed so loud it scared the cat.

 

Holmes sauntered into the room, wrapping his scarf around him: "Scoot, John. We're done here."  
"What? Sherlock, wait. Done here? What about the case?"  
"Oh. Yes. That. It's easy."  
He produced a notebook from his coat and flipped it open, revealing a photo of a man I knew. "I see you know him", he said, unnecessarily.  
"Yes. That's..."  
"Dr. Mergenström. Your colleague, I presume. Forty-two, divorced, two children, moderately successful physicist, likes model trains and Lego. Has a weakness for Star Wars, not Star Trek, watched all seasons of 'How I met your mother' after his wife divorced him three years ago, yes, John, I know that because I logged into his iTunes account. Using his wife's maiden name as a password, seriously, who does that? He's also a rock climber and astoundingly nimble for a man that tall."  
"...and?"  
"Judging from the footprints all over your orchard and your house, and 48 is a rather unusual size, I'd say he's been inside your house at night several times, but probably only after you told him about the photo incident. Am I right?"  
I tried to get my time frame in order, trying to remember when I had told of my nightly visitations, probably over lunch with my colleagues, as usual. I'd been scared. No, I'd freaked. Mergenström was a nice guy, but very quiet, always in the back. I couldn't recall if he'd been there. "I don't know. It's possible."  
"The letter you found. From your husband. What was it? Did it tell you to move on?"  
"Yes, but... How did you know?"  
"It's obviously fake. No, don't be upset. It took me a while to gather enough handwritten notes written by your late husband to figure that out, the forgery is quite good. And then, you probably want it to be genuine... But it is a fake. I'd wager it was written by someone who urgently wants you to move on, who doesn't know any other way to catch your eye, being socially awkward and trying to court someone who, alas, cannot even be courted by usual means. Who's probably even unaware of his affection, which is a state he cannot tolerate, but doesn't know how to remedy. So he tries anything, even resolving to measures others would find appalling and even alarming, to win that person's affection, to show that he cares. Trying to be protective, and failing, because he's not used to sentiment. Unable to declare his affection like other people do."

I stood, mouth agape. "Are we still talking about me?"

John cleared his throat.

Holmes smiled.

"Well. But what about the vase? And the pictures? Who did that?"  
"Someone who loves you very much", Holmes said, reaching out, plucking a grey and white hair off my blouse. "Your cat, Anne."

 

The cab arrived, and just like that, my daytime visitation came to an end. "What do I do about him", I had asked Holmes earlier, and he'd replied: "Get better locks. Or ask him out for coffee. Either way, you'll be fine." John had shaken his head and my hand, he'd smiled up at me and invited me to visit them the next time I was in London. Then he'd sprinted after Holmes, waving the gloves Holmes had forgotten.

There I stood, watching the two of them quarrel over the pastries I'd packed for their trip, Holmes declaring he wasn't hungry, and John not having any of that bullshit. Stood there for a while after the cab had vanished around the corner with one last wave by John. Unsure what I had just witnessed, and how to proceed. Mergenström would be an issue, and I felt my life had taken another strange turn.

But what was really, first and foremost on my mind, was whether I'd qualify for an invitation when these two finally made honest men out of each other.


End file.
